October 2026 - Vol. 23, Issue 5

I agreed to a year
I do not remember agreeing to.

The terms were written
in a language made mostly of small print.

By opening your eyes,
you consent to morning.

By remaining in bed,
you consent to being late.

By answering how are you?
you consent to the possibility
that someone may believe you.

I kept scrolling.

There was a box:

☐ I am not a robot.

I stared at it
for a long time.

The machine was waiting
for me to prove
I was human.

I clicked.

Incorrect.

Try again.

The second time,
I clicked the pictures containing traffic lights.

Incorrect.

The third time,
I closed the window.

For several weeks
I lived behind that little blue X.

People sent messages.

The messages accumulated
like unopened doors.

I learned the etiquette
of disappearing:
a delayed reply could become
an apology;
an apology could become
a joke;
a joke could become
evidence that nothing had happened.

One evening,
I found a notification
from an application
I had forgotten installing.

Your free trial has expired.

I laughed.

The sound startled me.

Underneath it,
something else was happening.

The phone asked
whether I wanted to renew.

I pressed:

CANCEL SUBSCRIPTION.

The screen turned white.

For once,
it did not ask me
to explain why.

Outside, a dog barked
at somebody else's life.

I opened the window.

That was all.

No revelation arrived.

The room remained
the room.

But the air came in
without requiring
a password.